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Credence remembers his first pride with a vividness that startles him.
The heat of the air, the music pounding through the pavement and thrumming in his ears. The bright floats and colorful banners. The drag queens strutting through the smoggy filthy streets like they're walking the finest Parisian runway. Credence felt like the smallest island amidst the sea of joyous people in bright, vibrant color, all of the happiness sucked out of the air the moment people set eyes on him and his family.
The first pride Credence ever attended was not a moment of celebration, of joy and jubilation. He remembers he had blood sticking to the inside of his shirt and a "God Hates Fags" sign heavy in his hands, clinging to denial so tightly, so possessively, it was as if he had blinded himself with knives and needles. There was a fierce ungodly jealousy in him, a burning envy that these people in the jubilant crowd were so happy and free and Credence—Credence was weighed down by the yoke of sin and damnation.
It was always blistering hot during the parade, the very sweat-soaked end of spring, LA streets packed to the brim, but even still Mary Lou made her children dress like it was Sunday morning, stuffed in too big suits and floor length skirts. Credence was convinced he would swoon to the ground from heatstroke by the end of the day, weakly handing out pamphlets full of hate to men with stardusted glitter on their cheeks and women in tiny purple-pink bikinis, as an androgynous teenager with long pink and blue curls and a black girl with sparkling gold dreadlocks sneer at his mother from across the street.
So many faces, turned towards Credence and his family with such disgust that a wave of shame washed over Credence, colder than any ice water running down his back. Mary Lou screaming slurs at them, fury making her eyes burn, her lips flinging spittle, all of it made Credence want to curl up into a small hole in the ground, to shy away from the world who looked at his mother as an example as to what was wrong with the human race.
All the while, Chastity was joining in loudly with her own virulent agreement, a pure copy of their mother while sinful, disgusting Credence could not tear his eyes away from the sinuous movements of the men riding past them on bright colorful floats. Credence knew deep in his gut that the moment his mother found out the truth about him and his inversion, he would be truly and utterly alone, rejected and probably tossed out onto the streets.
Ma had moved up the street to preach at more of the hell-damned, following the tail end of the parade as the sun dipped lower in the sky, Chastity and Modesty trailing after her like ducklings and leaving Credence behind to hand out flyers full of hatred.
Credence remembers that everything was going relatively well, he was only spit at twice and shoved once, until a tall black man thick with muscle had approached him. Credence couldn't look away. Small purple briefs clung to the thick curve of the man's groin, his biceps were nearly the size of Credence's head, abdominal muscles sculpted to marble statue perfection. Credence was sure the man could crush him with just one finger.
"Aw, don't be like that, baby," the man had crooned at Credence, much to his surprise as he held a shaking pamphlet out, stomach twisting with nerves. "Don't we all need a lil love?"
And then Credence was being tugged into a hard hug, a big palm cupping his neck as the man planted kisses along his forehead and cheeks and nose before he was released just as suddenly. It was only a few seconds, a few precious glitter-dipped seconds of being held, of being caressed, but it felt like a lifetime and he swayed on his feet as the man left him, slipping back into the crowd and leaving Credence a sweat-slick mess in his wake. He went to sleep that night dreaming of warm arms and soft lips and feeling as though nothing could ever hurt him again, rainbows arcing through the air, a song as sweet as sugar in his ears. And he'd kept that memory with him as long as he could, through Ma’s arrest and trial, into his foster home and even during his first kiss with Tina Graves.
But now, the first pride Credence ever marches in is so different that he finds he cannot even begin to compare the two. There are no hateful flyers spitting vitriol forced into his hand. His back doesn't burn with lashings from a cracked leather belt, his palms don't split with dried blood.
There is no pain, only the hot summer sun freckling his pale shoulders despite the sunscreen rubbed lovingly into his skin earlier, his lashes fluttery and curled with mascara, his mouth slicked and reddened from a sparkly tube of lipgloss. But most importantly his fingers are captured by a large, calloused hand, Credence tucked safe and snug to Percival's side, his normally gruff, stoic man dressed in shades of pink and purple, the bisexual flag across his wide chest as gorgeous as a sunset in winter.
"You good, baby?" is muttered gruffly into Credence's ear, the hand on his hip squeezing gently as a kiss is pressed against his temple.
"Yes, 'm okay," Credence says, refusing to think about his mother any longer. He smiles coyly as he slips out of Percival’s embrace and begins tugging him by the hand. "Faster, Percy! I think I saw a butterfly float!"
He's not supposed to feel so comfortable. He's half nude after all, a tiny pair of gold glitter shorts hugging him tight, a clingy little tank top rolling up on the points of his hips and flashing slivers of skin every time he moves, Percival's hand cupping his ass possessively as they walk through the streets of Los Angeles. He should feel sluttish and ashamed, but instead he’s uncaring as he throws sweet smelling rose petals into the air, pink and red floating around them as the wind picks up. He can feel only pride, not the sort of pride that leads into hell, but a pride edged in happiness as he walks beside this man whose eyes are on him and him alone.
This is his husband, Credence thinks with a sort of breathless wonder, not for the first time, nor will it be the last. The thought never fails to make Credence's heart stutter in his chest, a little stop before it flutters back to life, beating ever harder when he looks up at his beloved, still unable to believe how he got so lucky.
Credence grips Percival’s hand tighter, pulling him deeper into the crowd. A drag queen leaves a red lipstick mark against the arch of Percival’s cheek. A girl twines cherry blossoms in Credence’s long curls, winking when she sees Percival at his side. Someone starts singing Rent, others joining in, so off-key that a dog begins howling sharply in the crowd and Percival laughs and laughs as Credence claps along, giggling.
But his laughter stops sharply when he sees a familiar figure in the crowd, someone from a lifetime ago. He's older now, the edge of his scruff beginning to grey, but he's still in shape, thick shoulders, trim waist, laughing as he triggers mini-confetti poppers that shoot storms of rainbow flecks into the air that rain over the crowd.
Credence moves without a second thought. “Sir! Sir!”
The man turns, confusion, recognition and then pure, pleased surprise flooding his face. “Ah! Little altar boy himself!” He grins at Credence's bewilderment; he hadn’t expected this man to remember him. “Weren't you were the kid with the leaflets a few years ago?”
Credence shuffles at the ground with his foot, almost shy now. “Y-yes. That was me. How—you remember?”
“You're a bit hard to forget, cutie,” says the man, grinning and pulling him into a hug like they’re old friends. “What's a moral Christian do-gooder like you doing out here?” The words aren't said meanly, the man’s voice fond, as if he's thought of Credence often and with interest since their last meeting.
“My husband’s taking me to my first pride,” says Credence proudly, turning to wave Percival over enthusiastically.
“Credence,” Percival says in bemusement, twining his fingers through Credence’s as he moves to his side. “Who’s this?”
“Kingsley.” The man grabs Percival’s hand to shake eagerly. “Wow—just. Congratulations!” He beams a thousand light smile at them both, the white of his teeth striking against his dark skin. “I can't believe how far you've come from the picketers all those years ago. That's incredible, Credence.”
Credence blushes and looks down, curls falling into his eyes shyly. “Thank you,” he says quietly, squeezing Percival’s hand gently, comforted by the soft clink of their rings. He has never gone into detail about all of the horrible things his Ma did to him with his husband, and Credence is suddenly grateful that Percival isn’t questioning him about it in front of Kingsley. The mention of what he had to do makes a familiar burn of shame well up in his belly and he tries hard not to let his discomfort show.
As though sensing the shift in mood, Kingsley beams at Credence and pulls him in for another hug. “It's so good to see you,” he says warmly, pressing a friendly kiss to his cheek. “I'm so happy for you both and congratulations again!” With another shake of Percival’s hand and a wink, Kingsley disappears back into the crowd.
“Credence,” Percival says softly after a silent beat, the crowd sounding far away to Credence's ears as if he's only listening to them from a distance. “It doesn't matter what hate you had to spread in your Ma’s name. It was what you had to do to survive that evil woman. I know—we know that's not you or your words,” he says, pulling Credence flush against him. “We're here now. None of that matters anymore.”
Credence nods, burying his face in his husband's chest until he's able to gather himself. He wonders again how he managed to get so lucky, to have someone like Percival who understands even without words, who loves him so unconditionally, despite the horrible things he's had to do in the name of his god.
“I love you,” he murmurs, looking up to see a softness in Percival’s eyes. “So much.”
“I love you too, princess,” is Percival’s gentle, earnest reply as he pulls Credence in for a kiss. “Now and always.”
Credence is smiling and feeling much lighter when they part, realizing only belatedly that the surrounding crowd is cheering for them. Credence doesn't quite know how to feel about that until Percival's hands are encircling the crest of his hips and pulling him close and up and there's little he could do but instinctively wrap his legs around Percival's waist as he's being lifted.
Even a year ago, Credence would've blushed red as a strawberry but Credence now feels no embarrassment or shame, only happiness and pride as he smiles and kisses his husband for the supportive crowd. His husband, who he loves more than anyone else in the world, who will be there—has always been there for him through thick and thin, who Credence marvels at everyday, wondering how a man like Percival Graves can love him back. His husband, whose hand is pressed against his lower back, a supporting anchoring warmth, reminding Credence this is the here and now, this is his life now, he’s safe and accepted and loved and so, so happy.
He lets Percival pull him back into the revelry, spends the day dancing with the crowd and showing off for his husband, knowing it drives him crazy to see the sway of Credence’s hips. He lets Percival bring him close, throws his arms around his husband’s shoulders and moves against him until Percival is dancing too. He lets Darth Vader dressed only in tight boxer briefs drape a bright rainbow flag across his shoulders, drags Percival by the hand to chase the RuPaul float. He lets the cheer of the crowd permeate his skin and sink between his ribs, lets the happiness fill up the space in his chest Percival helped him create, keeping the warm glow safe where he knows no one can take it away from him ever again.
The sun is just starting to dip behind the Hollywood hills when they’re about to leave, staying til the very end of the day with the rest of the stragglers. They’re kicking up bits of confetti and glitter as they stroll down the street towards their car, the ground a bright paper rainbow. Credence is exhausted, half melted from the heat and tucked up against Percival’s side as they walk.
At the very end of the dispersing parade is a familiar sight that dunks Credence with a wash of cold dread. It startles him from his amiable sleepiness when he sees the little girl leaning against a makeshift fence barrier, a stack of “Fags Will Burn” flyers clutched tight in her small hands, alone.
Credence recognizes the look on her face, the bleary dejection that darkens her brow and the jaded resignation that drags down her shoulders. She barely flinches when the last of the celebrants walk past her, some of them moving in close enough to bump her shoulder. A couple of leaflets from the top of her stack flutter to the ground, adding to the soft carpet of streamers and papers, the hateful words a stark contrast against the rainbows proclaiming love. She sighs as she bends to retrieve them, defeat writ across her face.
It breaks Credence’s heart to see how much she looks like Modesty, the little sister that had been taken away from him as he approaches, disentangling himself from Percival to kneel in front of her. He barely realizes what he’s doing in the moment, but it feels overwhelmingly important.
She’s confused when Credence willingly takes a flyer and frowns when he smiles back. He unwinds a cherry blossom from his hair and tucks it gently behind her ear before pulling the little girl into a tight hug, feels her tremble in his arms, and Credence has to swallow heavily to keep down his own tears.
“It’ll be okay,” Credence tells her when he pulls away, spreading his palms open between them to show her the old scars. “You’ll be okay.” He tilts his head to look up at Percival who is looking back adoringly at him and smiles. “One day, you’ll be more than okay. You’ll be happy.”